them days, over on the south side.  Wal, Kingsley were a-comin’ down toward the fort from the no’th when he thort he see an Injun.  He looked behind, and, sure enough, there they was, a-closin’ in on him.  He looked ahead agin.  Shore’s you’re bo’hn there was a double row on ’em—­better’n a hunderd—­on all two sides of the trail.  He hadn’t a minit to study, and jist one thing to do, and he done hit.  He jist clapped spurs to his critter and made for the pond.  He knowed what they wanted of him”—­confidentially and solemnly:  “it were their intention to ketch him and scalp him alive, you know.  Wal, they follered him to the pond, a-whoopin’ and a-yellin’ all the way, makin’ shore on him.  When he got to the pond he rid right in, the Injuns a’ter him, but his critter soon began to gin out.  When he see that he jist gethered up his kit and jumped into the water, and swum for dear life.  Two mile good that feller swum, and saved his kit and musket.  The Injuns got his critter, but you never see nothin’ so mad as they was to see him git off that a-way.  The soldiers at the fort was a-watchin’ all the time.  They run down to meet him:  they see he looked kinder foolish as he swum in, and as soon as he struck the shore he jist flung himself on the sand, and laid for half an hour athout openin’ his eyes or speakin’.  Then he done riz right up and toted his kit to the commander, and axed to hev the pond named a’ter him.  The commander said it mought be so, and so hit was; and so it has to be, I says, and allays will.”

[Illustration:  Twin lake.]

It would be impossible to detail the exquisite and varied beauty of the way between Kingsley’s Pond and Ekoniah Scrub.  Through the fair primeval forest we wandered, following the old Alachua Trail, the very name of which enhanced the charm of the present scene by calling up thrilling fancies of the past; for this is the famous Indian war-path from the hunting-grounds of the interior to the settlements on the frontier, and may well be the oldest and the most adventure-fraught thoroughfare in the United States.  We could hardly persuade ourselves that we were not passing through some magnificent old estate—­of late, perhaps, somewhat fallen into neglect—­so perfect was the lawn-like smoothness of the grassy uplands, so rhythmical were the undulations of the slopes, so majestic the natural avenues of enormous oaks, so admirable the diversity of hill and dell, knoll and glade, shrubbery and lawn, forest and park, interspersed with frequent sheets of water—­Blue Pond, rivalling the sky in color; Sandhill Pond, deep set among high wooded slopes, with picturesque log mill and house; Magnolia Lake, with its flawless mirror; Crystal, of more than crystal clearness, with gorgeous sunset memories and sweet recollections of kindly hospitalities in the two homes which crown its twin heights; Bedford and Brooklyn Lakes, with log cottages beneath clustering trees; Minnie Lake, and its great